Phone Game
by Magda the Magpie
Summary: A mysterious golden phone brings an ordinary man into the world of detectives, criminals and spies by making sure he's always in the right place at the right time. Or is that the wrong place at the wrong time? Depends who you ask.


SEBASTIAN

His boss was in a good mood. He'd just sealed a lucrative deal with minimal fuss, but which would no doubt make the headlines. Just the way he liked them. He was even humming a tune under his breath and Sebastian was hard pressed not to laugh when he recognized the song from the Little Mermaid. He couldn't even point it out because he'd have to admit he knew it too and he might turn Jim's good mood sour, which was as good as shooting himself in the foot. Besides, given the deal he had just struck, Under the Sea was an oddly fitting hymn.

Seb was busy mentally attributing people their roles in the upcoming scheme, all the while refusing to acknowledge he had the same name as that blasted crab and wondering how much more mischief Jim could get into if he had two other sets of hands, when the accident happened.

Sebastian should have seen it coming. It was his job to see and eradicate threats, but he'd never really considered a steaming hot cup of take away coffee as a threat before. Jim's pristine suit and squeaky leather shoes certainly begged to differ when they collided with the burning hot drink. Even he could see both were ruined beyond repair.

"I'm- Oh my God, I'm so, so sorry."

Seb looked at the small blond man fidgeting in front of them, frantically looking through his pockets, possibly for a handkerchief but he tracked every one of his movements just in case. He glanced at his Jim's murderous expression and shook his head in resignation. He knew that look: the clumsy man was probably a soon to be dead man.

"Here, maybe I can-" the stranger started dabbing at the coffee stains with a _paper_ napkin of all things, and Seb rolled his eyes. He had to be suicidal.

The blond man then nattered on about paying for dry cleaners and offering what was left of his coffee, and he might even have promised his first born son if he continued any longer, but Jim finally spoke, his voice surprisingly calm and controlled, almost soft. He was definitely up to something.

"Blue was never my colour anyway, so maybe you did me a favour."

The blond man laughed nervously, just as surprised by Jim's answer as Seb was. He even blushed a little and Seb had to admit there was something strangely disarming about the stranger, but only at first glance. Seb didn't trust his military posture and he was relieved when he finally took his leave, with more apologies and well wishes than Jim had probably received all his life put together.

"Seb?" Jim snapped.

Seb grinned. This was more like it. He knew Jim wouldn't just let the man off the hook without paying for his terrible mistake. Make that plural.

"Follow him. Find out who he is. And anything else of note. You know the drill."

Seb nodded eagerly and sauntered after his target, using all his tricks not to get noticed. Not that he need have bothered so much. His target was not paying the least bit of attention to his surroundings, and, judging by his mumblings, he was mulling over their little encounter, recriminating himself for not being more careful, ruining a suit that looked too expensive to even look at, and making a fool of himself in front of someone so attractive.

Seb snickered and texted snatches of his target's one sided conversation to Jim, knowing he'd enjoy them thoroughly. He followed him the rest of the day, learning first his place of work, then his profession, then his name and finally his address when he followed him home. Easy work, a bit boring to be honest. He couldn't ever imagine having to live an ordinary life like this John Watson fellow.

Seb knew Jim could now find out more about his target than he ever could, so he headed back to headquarters with a spring to his steps, wondering what Jim was cooking up now. He was happy Jim had found a new distraction, besides the Holmes brothers, because it was nice to have a hobby when you had such a stressful work.

John Watson on the other hand, that poor sod, wouldn't know what hit him when the time came.

SHERLOCK

Sherlock was spying from his window at Angelo's. He wasn't eating anything, but his friend had learned not to get offended by his lack of appetite when he was on a case. It had served Angelo well, once upon a time, so who was he to complain? He still badgered him to come back for a real meal once he caught his man, and Sherlock had to admit he was quite pleased at Angelo's utter confidence that he would succeed, that it wasn't a question of "if", but "when".

Just as expected, a suspicious man walked up to the door he'd been staring at for the last half hour. Short, fair hair and a distinctive limp. However, Sherlock would need to get closer to deduce anything worthwhile. His suspect stared up at the number, 29, on Northumberland Street, then glared at the names of the residents before he simply tried to push the door open. Clearly, the man shouldn't be there, nor was he expected by anyone. It had to be him. His suspect. His serial killer.

Sherlock leapt out of his seat, ignoring both the patrons' mutters of dismay and Angelo's heartfelt farewell. It wasn't important. He had his suspect cornered right in the entryway with no means of escape. But, before Sherlock could open his mouth to question him, the blond man beat him to it.

"Where's my cane?" he demanded, his voice and glare brooking no nonsense and no argument.

Sherlock blinked owlishly at the man, completely taken by surprise, which... never happened to him. People didn't surprise Sherlock Holmes. Never. They bore him at the best, annoyed him most of the time. They didn't _surprise_ him. No one was that interesting. Except this man, it seemed.

"I... don't have your cane."

"Really. Then what do you want with me?"

Sherlock's eyes darted all over him, but he was either not his suspect or very good at hiding it. Strangely, instead of being annoyed at the setback, he found both options appealing. Then, out of the corner of his eye, he spotted a cab slowing down, suspiciously so, then waiting with the motor turning but no one getting in or out. Sherlock's lips drew into a thin line. They were standing right there in the doorway to 29, Northumberland Street, so of course, if this was his suspect, he was never going to make a move and might even get spooked.

"Kiss me. Now," Sherlock ordered, already pulling at the lapel of the man's coat.

"Like hell I will," his stranger replied, pulling back and leaving with an even more pronounced limp as he muttered about his cane and bloody lunatics. The cab had left too, sometime during their argument. What a waste of time.

Sherlock never would have guessed he'd be seeing the limping man again later that very night. Sherlock was just about to swallow the pill, the right pill he was sure, when he saw the other man gawking at him through the window of the opposite building. Intriguing, to say the least. He couldn't be following him. Was he after the serial killer too?

Sherlock blinked, wondering why he was wasting time here now that he'd caught his serial killer. Ah, yes... the pill. That detail seemed boring now in comparison to this new mystery the limping man posed.

As if reading his thoughts, the man lifted up a cane so it was visible through the window, answering at least one of his questions, but only one of many.

 _Who are you?_

 _Why are you following me?_

 _Or who sent you?_

 _What do you want?_

Sherlock's brow furrowed. There was a story behind that cane and behind that man, one he could not deduce except by accepting that coincidences existed in this universe, which they did not.

Sherlock put the pill down on the table in the exact same spot he'd taken it from. Where he should never have retrieved it to begin with, he now realized. Mycroft would be furious if he knew. Sherlock then ignored the cabby's protests, his poor attempts at cajoling him into swallowing it, and instead cuffed him securely to the chair before hitting him over the head with his fake gun. The cabbie hadn't even tried running or defending himself. He knew he was beaten and it was disappointingly anticlimactic, but endings usually were.

 _He_ prefered the chase.

In a hurry now, Sherlock dutifully texted Lestrade with one hand while pulling up his collar with the other. It only took him a few minutes to run to the building on the other side, only to find it empty. His mystery man long gone, without a trace, without so much as the outline of a shoeprint or the whiff of a cologne by which he might find him again. No. Nothing so easy. This was interesting, something to look forward to.

JOHN

John considered the last few days and came to one conclusion: be careful what you wish for. That was the saying, right? And maybe he should have taken it more to heart, because as much as he'd bemoaned his life was numbingly boring before, he never thought it could get this crazy either.

It all started one morning when he received a phone with a golden casing through the post. He thought it was an error at first, because even if he had needed to replace Harry's second-hand phone, he'd never order something so gaudy or complicated, but the packet was addressed to him. His name, his address.

Curious John fumbled with the tiny buttons on the side until he managed to turn it on and was greeted by a first text:

 **Hello John.**

And then, everything spiralled into insanity.

The phone was silent for a while after that first message, even after John had texted back to ask who it was. He couldn't make head or tail of the mysterious phone. He asked Harry and a few acquaintances if they'd sent him the phone but when he only received suspicious or blank stares in return, he kept the device secret, using Harry's as usual, although he felt compelled to keep the golden phone on him all the time anyway. There had to be a point to it after all.

Then, out of the blue, he received a new text:

 **Stop at the next corner and wait for a couple of minutes if you want to see something interesting.**

John scoffed at the message. It sounded so… silly, almost childish. His first thought was to ignore it, but he was already there anyway, and it's not like he had anything better to do or was going out of his way to follow vague directions to a vague event. He just happened to be there already. With a nod to his perfectly sound reasoning, John ignored the Puffin signal when it turned green, as well as the other pedestrians flowing past him, but so far, he couldn't see what was so interesting about this spot or this moment.

Until the screaming started.

Pedestrians dove out of the way, seeking refuge on the sidewalks on either side of the road while a sleek, dark car swerved his way, its tires screeching loudly to make the sharp turn, barely missing the closest gawkers, John included. The runaway car was gone in the blink of an eye but it was closely followed by two wailing cars of the Met, sirens and lights blazing as they careened in hot pursuit, albeit with more care to the citizens milling about. And then, they too were gone, and the traffic resumed as if nothing out of the ordinary had happened. But John stood there, still unmoving, his heart pounding madly against his ribcage at the unexpected excitement in time with his only question: _How had he known? How? How? How?_

Finally, John took out his phone, the golden one, and after thinking for a bit, he texted back:

 **Thank you.**

Unsurprisingly, there was no answer and the phone was silent once more, only coming to life to point out interesting people or events to him. Most of them might not even be true, but he always found them amusing, such as the ones telling him the man that looked like a philosophy professor was actually a pickpocket or that the kind old woman he'd helped reach for the cereals was shoplifting. But all of these random text pointed to something that made him a bit uneasy, but led to his first real conversation with the owner of the golden phone.

 **Are you stalking me?**

 **Obviously.**

 **Bit creepy.**

 **Only a bit? I'm disappointed.**

The next time John was told to go somewhere, he hesitated only for a minute before he followed the phone's directions. He knew it was insane and probably dangerous, but that had never stopped him before. He craved the action, for _anything_ exciting to happen to him, and was not disappointed when he came just in time to witness a bank robbery in the making.

JIM

Jim felt like a puppeteer, especially when he was in his office - which was actually just a study with an over-abundance of laptops, computers, screens, flash drives and phones - because he would watch them all run around in circles, after one another or away from one another. It was a fascinating dance and he thrived on pulling one string up to see another go down, to throw a pebble in the middle of it all and watch them struggle against the ripples to keep their heads above water.

Against all odds, his newest addition was far more interesting that he could have ever hoped for. John seemed so ordinary at first glance that he had almost dismissed him. Alright… he'd almost told Seb to boil him alive in a hot tub of coffee, but you needn't scratch his ordinary-looking surface much to see he was anything but. He never reacted the way Jim imagined and even surprised him a couple of times. That more than anything else delighted him.

As a test, he'd even thrown his new toy at Sherlock, certain John would fail and fall victim to his nemesis's gravity and become a boring little satellite he'd have to get rid of, but no, John pushed Sherlock away, not only once, but twice. It was beautiful.

Jim leaned over his desk to concentrate on a particular screen to observe John in his bedsit. He was glancing every so often at the golden phone he'd sent him. Gold like his hair and tanned skin. Jim had had it plated especially for the occasion although John didn't seem to realise it was actually gold and not some cheap imitation.

His newest pet seemed restless. He worked part time at a small surgery and had spent his afternoon there but he had no social life to speak of, yet didn't seem to want to sleep. Jim took his phone, his fingers tapping softly away:

 **Miss me?**

He watched John's reaction on the screen. He was a very expressive man and once again, did not disappoint: his eyebrows shot up to his hairline at the chime of the golden phone before he smiled and read the text. He chuckled, somehow managing to make it sound self deprecating. His answer was slow in coming, his index fingers plucking at the letters one by one.

 **I swear I feel like you're watching me sometimes.**

 **Who says I'm not?**

John looked at his closed drapes, then at the front door.

 **Impossible.**

 **Nothing is impossible for me.**

And it was true. He'd yet to find his match. Sherlock was proving a bit disappointing, but he thought his brother might fare better.

 **That must be boring.**

John's reply was so very unexpected once more that Jim found himself smiling. He quickly wiped that ludicrous expression off his face. It had been too sincere, too real… That wouldn't do. He couldn't get soft, even if he did like the strange little man.

 **Will I get to meet you someday?**

John's middle name should have been Unexpected. Why the blazes would he want to meet him? He was no one, just letters on a screen.

Jim peered at the screen, at John anxiously staring at the phone, putting it down, picking it up again. Waiting.

Jim read that last message again. No, no, no. That wouldn't do. He had to throw John down the rabbit hole, and soon. Jim watched his screens, looking at the various players going about their lives, unwittingly waiting for him to pull their threads to make their lives more… interesting. His sharp eyes finally settled on one of his favourites and the most difficult to keep a trail on, not to mention have under surveillance. He was currently drinking an expensive scotch in a leather armchair, relaxing between one crisis and the next in his favourite haven. But relaxing is by far a kinder word for being bored out of your mind, he would be doing him a favour really. Yes, this one would do nicely for now.

Besides, John had stewed for long enough. He'd already started pacing, which wasn't an easy feat in such a ridiculously small room, even for someone as short as him, so Jim sent him an address, then watched as John grinned and hurried out the door. Jim didn't need to follow his progress, he knew John would follow his directions and get there in time. John was good at following orders. He might even have recruited him if he wasn't such a _good_ person. He knew John would never go along with half of his schemes.

With John on the way, Jim organized the next scene by sending out orders to his men and finishing with a text for the new player to come out when the timing was just right- his men had done their job, John was in place, the police were on their way - just a tad off schedule but weren't they always. All it needed was the cherry on top.

 **Dear me, security is not what it used to be, is it? I hope you weren't too attached to those pictures you kept in storage? I have a friend who would love to get his clammy hands on them.**

MYCROFT

Mycroft had the luxury of enjoying one sip of his special ordered Scotch. Just the one. Then he sighed when he felt his phone vibrate ever so minutely against his chest. He'd had to have it recalibrated so the vibration was absolutely minimal and completely soundless to the point it did not make that grating buzzing sound while vibrating, even on a flat, hard surface. His sigh turned into the tremor of a growl when he saw who had had the audacity to send it. This was going to be a long night. He could tell already. With great reluctance, he abandoned his glass of Scotch and opened the text, analysed it, analysed it again with great care, and by the time he was out the door of the Diogenes, he had already sent his agents scattering about on very specific missions. He himself had decided to take a more "hands-on" approach to this particular threat for once which explained why he was in his car, speeding towards the place Moriarty had alluded to. It might not be a smart move, but he wasn't in the mood for games tonight and maybe being straightforward for once would throw off whatever the criminal mastermind's plans were this time.

"I'm afraid the police have already arrived at the scene, sir," Anthea said and promptly returned her attention to her Blackberry.

"I'll deal with them," Mycroft muttered, wondering at their presence there as well as the timing.

He hoped it was one of the more intelligent officers of the law in charge tonight because he doubted he could muster the patience to deal with idiocy. Not when there were state secrets at stake.

Mycroft was relieved to see it was an old acquaintance, the good Detective Inspector Lestrade, who was lead on this case. He was usually overworked and malleable, which would make dismissing him easier. Lestrade, on the other hand, was none too happy to see him and wasn't shy of showing it.

"Detective Inspector," Mycroft greeted with a slight tilt of the head. "My people can take over from here."

"No they bloody well can't. Your spooks aren't above the law, you know, and neither are you."

Mycroft gave him a pitying smile. However, Lestrade seemed in a foul mood tonight and Mycroft needed to keep on his friendly side to help him deal with his wayward brother. He gave a slight nod of acceptance. He would just have to deal with this situation the long, official way, although it would make the whole process more difficult for the DI in the end. Lestrade should know that by now, but he was a stubborn man, in a fascinating way, not in an annoying way like his brother was.

"Of course," Mycroft said, making the poor man frown by his obvious omission of a negative as he tried to get the meaning out of that. "Could you at least inform me if you've arrested the culprits. This facility contains rather... sensitive information."

"Only this one bloke, but I'm not sure he has anything to do with it. He always seems to be in the wrong place at the wrong time, or right, depending on how you look at things, I suppose. This must be the third time I've come across him this month."

Mycroft's lips twitched ever so slightly before he answered.

"That cannot be a coincidence, you do realize? I need to see this man."

"You're not disappearing off with him. Don't you even dare," he warned before he lead him to a police car, opening the back door then stepping back to give him room.

Mycroft leaned over and looked down his nose at the man, unimpressed, then his eyes narrowed as he catalogued his physical characteristics and found a match within his people of interest.

"I've seen you before," he mused and noted both Lestrade's look of surprise and the stranger's frown of confusion. "Yes. I've seen you around Sherlock."

"What? Really?" Lestrade asked, his gaze turning more suspicious now as he looked over the stranger.

"I don't know a Sherlock," the man muttered. "If that's even a real name."

Mycroft ignored him and sent a text to his brother ordering him to head for Scotland Yard for a suspect's identification. That should get him interested. In his case, the vaguer, the better. He then told Lestrade he would meet him there too so they could sort out this little conundrum. The DI rolled his eyes but obeyed nonetheless, out of habit more than anything else. He knew to pick his battles with him and this one was not worth fighting.

He should reward him with a nice cup of coffee and made sure Anthea would have that ready by the time they were all reunited. Good behaviour should always be rewarded.

Sherlock was already waiting for them when they arrived at Scotland Yard, so he had probably been at lurking at St Barts, in the morgue by the smell of him, when he'd summoned him, which explained his lack of fight on this matter.

"Mycroft. Could you try to make your texts any more cryptic?"

"I actually could, but we know how terrible you are at riddles. Come along, brother dear, I need you to identify a suspect."

He led him to the interrogation room he'd seen Lestrade disappear into with their suspect, and walked in ahead of Sherlock so he could have a prime view of the confrontation. If for some reason, his brother did not want to share what he knew of the man, Mycroft would at least know he was trying to hide something. It was more entertaining than he had been expected. Immediate, too.

The stranger was handcuffed to the table, bent over and looking miserable, but he looked up just as Sherlock walked in.

"You!" he said, the one word loaded with accusation.

"You!" Sherlock exclaimed, but he sounded, and looked, delighted, like he had just found the missing piece of a puzzle.

GREG

Just when he thought this night couldn't get any worse, it did. Not only had he been saddled with a case that had no business being in his division because the so called corpse on the scene of the crime had still been breathing and would apparently make a full recovery, but now he had to deal with the two Holmes brothers. Both of them! At the same time! Insanity was sure to follow and he half expected a dragon to come rampaging through the Yard any second now.

Greg pinched the bridge of his nose, then took a deep breath to let it out slowly. At least there was good coffee available for once. He could do this: deal with the two Holmes at once, as well as the crazy civilian who was always right in the middle of things, by pure coincidence if you believed him.

"Alright, spit it out," Greg ordered. "How the hell do you two know each other?"

"I don't," they both replied at the same time, then looked at each other and after a tense moment, broke out in undignified giggles.

Greg looked to Mycroft for help, but the other man was looking with interest at the stranger, seeming happy to let things evolve on their own for now. He slumped in the chair facing their suspect, watching wearily as Mycroft took the one next to him. Not needing another witness to this circus, Greg ushered the other yarder present out with an impatient gesture which was immediately obeyed. Flight instinct, Greg thought. Sherlock looked happy enough to hover around the room, which wasn't surprising as he'd never been one to sit around when he was on a case. Only his eyes lingered on the stranger, deducing him to bits from every angle probably. Greg hoped this wasn't some kind of mating dance and grimaced at the thought.

Right, back to basics. He'd love very much to close this case and sweep it under a carpet.

"Name?" he demanded, catching the suspect's attention once more since he had been keeping a wary eye on Sherlock.

"What am I even accused of? I didn't do anything."

"High-treason," Mycroft replied coldly, finally joining in.

"What?" the man blurted out.

"Always so melodramatic, Mycroft."

"What is he supposed to have stolen?" Greg cut in before the two started bickering in his interrogation room. "We didn't find anything on him."

"Pictures. He could have made copies. Do you have his phone?" Mycroft asked extending an expectant hand, waiting.

"He didn't have one," Greg said, staring at his perfectly manicured hand.

"I didn't?" the stranger said, paling considerably. "But I did. I do."

He twisted around as if to check for himself, but was stopped short by his restrained hands.

"Can I search him?" Sherlock asked from behind the man.

Greg was about to nod when the handcuffs clanged loudly in the bare room. The man was straining to get as far from Sherlock as he could.

"No! Not him."

Greg blinked. What the hell had happened between those two? Sherlock often had that effect on suspects but only after he'd deduced them into oblivion, revealing all of their most private secrets, but he'd been nothing but charming up to now. Well, charming for him. Even Mycroft didn't seem to have a clue about their past, which was surprising in and of itself, but not as much as the elegant man offering to do the search himself. Sherlock had always told him his brother despised legwork, which explained the number of minions he had at his beck and call, but Greg had the sneaky suspicion Mycroft was doing it just to spite Sherlock.

The stranger stood from his chair, still as a statue and head bowed while Mycroft patted him down, looking for all the world like he had just fallen down the rabbit hole and had no idea why it was happening to him. Greg almost pitied the guy, but he still didn't trust him. Too many secrets.

"No phone," Mycroft announced, "No sign of the... of what was stolen. You've searched the area, I imagine?"

Greg nodded, waited for the stranger to sit and demanded again, with more force this time:

"Name?"

The other man sighed and seemed to have come to the inevitable conclusion that he should speak if he wanted to get out of this situation. Almost everyone who ended up here came to that conclusion at some point or other.

"John Watson," he muttered.

As a professional, Greg knew his next question should be about what he was doing at the government facility which had been broken into, almost killing one security guard, but his curiosity got the better of him.

"How do you know Sherlock?"

"Who's Sherlock?"

"I am. Sherlock Holmes. A pleasure to meet you again. Where's your cane?"

"My-" John glared at Greg. "Where _is_ my cane?"

Greg scratched his head. He had no idea.

"It must have been left behind in the car," he said just so his suspect would turn off that glare or direct it elsewhere. Suspects weren't supposed to glare at him, that was his job. Besides, It was as potent as a Holmes glare and that was saying a lot. What was wrong with all these people, getting him off track all the time when he was only trying to do his job.

"How do you know Sherlock?" he repeated.

"That wanker," he said tossing his head in Sherlock's direction. "Tried to snog me in the middle of the street. He should be the one handcuffed in my place. Bet he's a sex offender."

Greg should have known better than to sip the heavenly coffee while he waited for the man's response. Of course it would be something completely ridiculous. As it was, he forced his mouthful down, glad he hadn't sprayed it across the table. He fumbled for a reply to that but felt like banging his head on the table. In the end, he simply looked to Sherlock for a refutation.

"Only pretend to 'snog', as he puts it," Sherlock said mulishly. "I needed a cover to spy on a suspect… Speaking of which, he was there when I arrested the cabbie too, in the building facing the one where I was taken."

"Really? How very extraordinary," Mycroft said, his tone mild but his eyes sharp, mirroring Greg's own feelings.

"You were there when that forger jumped to his death in Soho, when there was that pile up on West Street and on that bank robbery-"

"Oi! I helped out with that one. They would have gotten away otherwise," Watson interjected, cutting him off.

"He's the civilian you told me about? The one who always ran off before you could get a statement out of him?" Sherlock asked and Greg merely nodded, not wanting to get off course again.

Sherlock took the remaining seat next to Watson, looking at him with wide, fascinated eyes. He looked at interesting corpses that way too. Creepy, to say the least.

"How is it you always find yourself right in the middle of things. That's at least five times that we know about now. It is highly suspicious," Mycroft pointed out.

Watson blushed, actually blushed like a fucking virgin on her wedding night, biting his lip, so either he was thinking up a lie or he was not convinced telling the truth was in his best interests.

"You'd better talk now, mate," Greg said, trying for the good cop approach because Mycroft was already doing a good impression of the bad cop and the poor man also had to deal with the waves of naked interest emanating from Sherlock.

Watson sighed again, a telltale sign Greg was starting to recognize as defeat.

"I knew I shouldn't have, that it would get me into trouble sooner or later... but I was just so _bored_ ," he explained which made no sense to Greg, but the two Holmes brothers gave a small nod of understanding. "A few weeks ago, I received this phone through the post…"

JOHN

John looked at the DI directly across from him to tell his story because he looked like the most normal and reasonable out of the whole lot of them, which was saying a lot given the way he seemed to be inhaling the contents of his coffee through his nose while hugging the cup tightly against him, as if afraid someone else might steal umbrella-wielding man sitting next to him looked like he would like nothing better than to lock him up and throw away the key. But despite that, John was most disturbed by the man sitting right next to him. He was sure he'd dragged his chair as close to his as he could because he was way into his personal space and staring at him. Just... staring. John felt a tiny, insignificant insect about to be gobbled up by the strange man. He did look a bit like a praying mantis now that he thought about it. He'd have nightmares tonight, he was sure.

Once he was finished with his account of the golden phone, Lestrade mournfully let go of his coffee cup and cleared his throat.

"And you just happened to lose this phone you keep going on about?"

"Well...yeah. I know I had it when I left my flat because I took it out to check the address. I still had it… uhm... on Canterbury. I'm sure I still had it then."

"Could you have dropped it after that? Maybe it slipped from your pocket?"

John grimaced at the thought of losing that phone since he'd grown quite attached to it and it might be his card out of jail right now, but in the next instant, the man called Mycroft shoved his own phone in his face. It was a picture… of him! And not only that, he was on Canterbury street holding his phone. The golden glint was very distinctive, despite the picture being a bit blurry.

"That's it! That's my phone!" John exclaimed, glad he could prove he hadn't been lying, before he realized what Mycroft had just accomplished in under a minute. "Bloody hell! You're the real thing, aren't you? Big brother is watching and all that."

Sherlock snorted but Mycroft looked smugly pleased.

"Indeed," he said. "Unfortunately, without your phone, you are of no use to me. You've been played, as well as I, and Sherlock too, apparently. And I happen to know by whom. Pity," he said and got up to leave. "I think you can release him, Detective Inspector."

"But-" Lestrade protested.

"He hasn't committed any crime, Lestrade. He was just in the wrong place-" Sherlock began.

"At the wrong time. Yeah, yeah, I know the drill. Mr Watson, you should really try to stay out of trouble," he said and undid the cuffs.

John rubbed his wrists and was startled when a pretty woman in a business suit handed him his cane without a word before disappearing after Mycroft. The lucky bastard.

John wasted no time in leaving Scotland Yard. He'd had more than enough of this place and he didn't like the curious looks he was getting from the officers loitering about. He was close to the tube station when he noticed he was being shadowed. It was Sherlock Holmes of course. John still wasn't sure he wasn't a sex offender. The DI hadn't denied it after all.

"Go away!" he hissed back at him, not wanting to attract attention.

"Stop following me!" he added when Sherlock boarded the same wagon as him, not even trying to be discreet.

John was not really surprised when he didn't argue, yet continued to follow him, and decided he'd just slam the door to his building in his stalker's face if he really did follow him that far, which he did. Of course, he did. John took great delight in shutting the door at the last second. With any luck, he might have hit him right in his smug little nose.

By the time he got to his bedsit, he was so exhausted, he stripped what he could and fell into bed, asleep before his head hit the pillow. John woke up, not because it was light out, but because of an unfamiliar sound just at the edge of his hearing. It wasn't even one of his annoying neighbours for once either. The sound was closer. Much closer. Too close. Startled at the realisation, John shot up from his bed and immediately caught sight of the intruder. His bedsit was too small to provide any sort of hiding place.

Sherlock, who couldn't take a hint apparently, was sitting in his only chair and using his laptop, perfectly at ease.

"Oi! What the hell! How did you get in?"

John looked at the door, half expecting to see it hanging on its hinges but it seemed fine.

"Oh, hello, John," Sherlock said as if it was completely normal for him to be there. "Lockpicks," he added as an afterthought.

There was so much wrong with this situation, John didn't even know where to begin. This man had no boundaries whatsoever. Social norm, personal space, private belongings, breaking and entering… it meant nothing to him.

"Out," John said, trying to keep his anger under control, but Sherlock didn't even acknowledge he'd said anything so he snapped. "Out!"

"No. You need my help."

"I don't need anyone's help and certainly not yours. Get. Out."

Sherlock pushed the chair back and put his coat back on with a dramatic twirl before heading for the door.

"221B Baker Street." he said, looking down at him, still in his bed.

Cursing, he got out of bed, only then remembering he had no pants on, which he proceeded to ignore while fighting down his blush and blurting out a worbly: "What?"

"When you realize you need me - and believe me, you will - that's where you'll find me: 221B Baker Street."

"Why would I need you?"

A strange expression flitted across Sherlock's face, like he was… No, he was. He really was smirking, that bastard. He held up an electronic device of some sort and tossed it at him. John caught it easily and stared into a very small glass eye. The thing probably cost a fortune.

"You were being spied on, and obviously, you weren't even aware of it. Mycroft says it isn't his, so someone has quite an interest in you. Any idea who?"

"Except you and this Mycroft fellow? No. I'm really not that interesting."

"I beg to differ," Sherlock scoffed, taking a step closer.

"Just...leave. Please? I need to think for a while."

Sherlock nodded and left without another word. Not totally socially inept then.

With the help of the bedsit's only saucepan, John smashed the small camera until the biggest piece left was the size of a penny. To think someone had been spying on him, in the only place he had some modicum of privacy, even if he couldn't call it home, while he ate, slept, undressed… Oh God… Had someone watched him masturbate? John shuddered and slammed the heavy saucepan down on the camera some more.

But if it wasn't Sherlock nor Mycroft who had been watching him, then John knew of only one other person who had been watching him lately: the one who gave him the phone. He'd even admitted as much and John had laughed it off like the idiot he was. He'd been watched for weeks!

As if on cue, a knock on the door broke the tense silence and upon opening the door, John found his golden phone, just lying there on the ground with no one in sight. Warily, John picked it up and bolted his door. He debated giving it the saucepan treatment too, but there was the tiny light winking at him from the phone's sleek surface, beckoning him to read the message waiting for him, and John may have a temper but he wasn't a coward, so he opened it.

 **Wasn't that fun!**

 **No. No, it really wasn't.**

 **Come now, Johnny boy. Where's your sense of humour?**

 **Lost it when I was handcuffed at Scotland Yard being interrogated.**

 **But you like it. The excitement, the danger. I know you do.**

 **You tried to frame me!**

 **No. I was just taking you out for a spin, and I loved every second of it.**

John gave up. It was no use answering when this guy clearly had a few screws loose

He'd always been this crazy, no doubt, but John hadn't seen it before, or hadn't wanted to see it. He had something to hang on to, to look forward to, to make him feel alive again... He looked at the phone, gleaming and beautiful, sitting heavily in his hand, unsure what to do with it. He could just throw it out… he probably should.

John stared at it for a long time before he decided to put it in the drawer of his bedside table, next to his gun, his medals and his grandfather's watch. His own little treasure chest. He hadn't even closed the drawer when the notification went off again. John slammed it shut.

Was he still being watched? Maybe Sherlock had missed a camera. The device was so tiny, there could be more, they could be anywhere: hidden in the lamps, behind the mirror, on the small table or in the shelves… John rummaged around but he had no idea how to go about finding them. He was so much out of his depth, he should invest in scuba-diving gear. This… the whole situation was worthy of a James Bond scenario and he was no spy. Give him something to shoot or to heal and he'd do great, but this…

John dressed in a hurry, putting back on the clothes he'd thrown on the floor the previous night. He had a session with his therapist and couldn't care less if he looked a bit frumpy. Maybe it'll even give them something to talk about instead of the usual awkward silence, or, God forbid, his stint at Scotland Yard and how he got there. She might not even believe him, not that he'd blame her.

As John walked through the crowded streets on his way back, his phone beeped. Not _his_ phone, the phone Harry had given him he realized as he took it out, but the golden phone he left back in his bedsit, locked in his bedside drawer, next to his illegal gun.

He froze, transfixed by the sight of the gold casing that shouldn't, couldn't be here. John vaguely heard people mutter and push their way around him until he snapped out of it and read the latest text, expecting the worse.

 **Miss me?**

John glanced around at the chill he felt run down his back. He was being watched again. Had to be. Followed even. Stalked like a prey. No one was being obvious, of course. These weren't amateurs he was dealing with. Although… were those CCTVs swiveling his way? John walked down the street, the cameras following him.

 _Big Brother is watching._

 _Crazy Phone Guy is watching._

For once, the only one who was not making googly eyes at him was the one John needed to see.

SHERLOCK

"Sherlock! You have a visitor!" he heard Mrs Hudson shout from downstairs, then deleted the pedestrian data.

He was in the middle of a very delicate experiment. He had to keep everything under control: the temperature of the very room, the tiniest of breezes, of movements, his very own breathing. He had no time for Hudders' hysterics.

"Sherlock?" another voice, male, soft, uncertain.

 _John._

His head snapped up and he looked at the not completely unexpected figure, a bit blurry around the edges through his plastic goggles. Then his experiment became unstable and exploded, also to be expected. However, the blast was more powerful than he had estimated and he found himself knocked back before heat and a terrible stench assaulted his senses.

John reappeared in his line of vision, his jumper pulled over half his face.

"I opened the window. I think that stuff is eating through the table. Oh! You've got some on you. You should-"

But Sherlock had already sprung up and started to shed his melting clothes off. The gooey yellow substance he'd obtained was quite interesting.

"Erm... the bathroom maybe?" John told him, looking away, although Sherlock could see the tips of his ears redden. "You'd better take a shower anyway."

Sherlock shrugged and thought of objecting because John was there which meant he was ready to collaborate. The game was on! Whatever the game actually was… but there was definitely something going on and John was _interesting._ However, he had to admit his chest was starting to itch where the yellow goo had almost soaked through. Five minutes was all he needed. Acceptable delay, so Sherlock sauntered out the room. If John had come this far, he wouldn't leave so soon.

A steaming cup of tea greeted him when he returned in his dressing gown, with John cradling his own as he sat in the armchair he least favoured. He looked right at home. Sherlock could get used to this.

"I need a flatmate," he said, testing the waters.

"What?"

"Flatmate." Sherlock did dislike repeating himself. "I need a flatmate, you need a flatshare. It's perfect."

John scowled at him, then started ranting. It was entertaining, if completely useless.

"Who said anything about a flatshare? Besides, that's not even why I came here, or do you just ask any random stranger who has the misfortune of wandering up here to be your flatmate? And if you think _I'_ d be willing to move in with you, then you're crazier than I thought. In fact… maybe I should leave. This was a mistake."

Sherlock pouted, because he heard he was adorable when he did that, although that might have been when he was seven.

"You're no fun," he muttered.

"You're the second person to say that to me today."

"Who was the first?"

John took out his mythical golden phone out of his pocket and tossed it over to him. It wasn't even locked, so Sherlock switched it on: only one unnamed contact, only exchanges by text but lots of them, usually one-sided, the texts issued by the unknown number giving John addresses to go to. The last one received only a few minutes ago, while he was still under the shower.

 **Aww, you're no fun anymore, Johnny boy. I'm disappointed.**

It beeped in his hand while he was still looking thoughtfully at the last message, so it was only natural he read the new message.

 **What do you say, Sherlock? Should I get rid of him now?**

John was giving his a grim look. He seemed to know whatever the message was couldn't be good for him now, but he also looked like he could take a death threat without becoming hysteric, so Sherlock handed him the phone back. He was right, as usual. If anything, John looked like he was preparing for a fight as he sat straighter and squared his shoulders. Sherlock gave a nod of approval then jumped to his feet.

"Looks like I'm being watched too. See? We _do_ have something in common."

Sherlock combed through the flat and found two bugs in the living room, one in the kitchen and one in his bedroom. One of those did not belong to Mycroft.

"This one is similar to the one I found in your bedsit," he explained, holding up the culprit before dropping it in John's tea.

He scowled at him then put his cup down. Still no hysterics. This man was made of stone.

"And the others?" he asked with a wave at the discarded bugs he'd tossed towards the chimney.

"My brother's."

"Your brother spies on you?"

"You could say it's a hobby of his. Well... you've met him: he can't help himself. I bet he spies on the Queen too."

John has such an expressive face that Sherlock saw the exact moment the penny dropped.

"Oh... Big Brother is literally big brother in your case. So you think that thing..." John said pointing at the device bobbing out his teacup, then at his golden phone: "...is from him."

The phone beeped before Sherlock could compliment John on not being a complete idiot. He strode over to John's side, then balanced himself on his chair's armrest to read the message with him.

 **Spoilsport.**

John wasn't saying anything, but he wasn't asking stupid questions either. Instead, he stole the cup of tea he'd forgotten about.

"You said I'd need help. Do you know who it is?" John asked.

"I may have an idea, yes."

"Care to share?"

"It won't help you."

"He says he wants to kill me. I think I ought to know who it is, don't you?"

Sherlock mulled this over. He still couldn't see the logic in this, but John looked so earnest, he gave in. He didn't want to drive John away, after all.

"I only know his name is Moriarty."

John blinked, face blank.

"You're right. That doesn't help at all."

Sherlock knew from experience this was one of those situations where he shouldn't laugh, and he tried really hard not too, but John's own lips were quivering and next thing he knows, a chuckle escaped him and they're both laughing like schoolboys.

Sherlock didn't know much about the elusive Moriarty, but what little he did, he shared with John. It only made him more tense and puzzled as to why he'd been involved by the man in the first place

But he'd insisted on knowing and Sherlock respected that.

"But I'm no one!" John protested. "I don't know anyone important, I don't have money or power or information. I'm not even smart like you! What am I supposed to do against him?"

Since honesty served him so well up to now with John, he gave him an honest answer.

"Nothing."

"Nothing?"

"Moriarty is playing a game and he's the only one who knows the rules, so, we wait for his next move. In short: we do nothing," Sherlock explained, letting the situation sink in before continuing: "Of course, it would be safer if you moved in with me."

John snorted.

"Persistent little bugger, aren't you?"

Sherlock shrugged. It was worth a shot. But then, John surprised him by accepting to stay for the night.

"Well, it _is_ late and frankly, I'm not all that keen on going alone at night to my bedsit knowing an obsessive madman who sponsors serial killers for fun already broke into it once today. Safety in numbers, right? Since we have a common enemy, and my enemy's enemy is my friend... Shall I make another cuppa?"

It was much later that evening, after too much tea and some take-away, that Sherlock realized he and John had been talking for hours. Not just about Moriarty either, a task made easier since the phone had remained blissfully quiet since he'd debugged his flat. It was a strange feeling because he'd only ever experienced this level of companionship with his trusty skull, the very one grinning at him from the chimney.

 _Friend_ , John had said.

Yes, Sherlock could get used to that idea.

SEBASTIAN

Seb wasn't sure whether to be worried or reassured by his boss alternatively cackling like… well, a madman, which he had always known he was, then falling as silent as a predator about to jump his prey. The only activity that never ceased were his fingers, fluttering over phones and keyboards at such incredible speeds, they were a constant blur of movement in the periphery of Seb's vision while he did his crosswords. Whatever Jim was planning, it was huge, and Seb wouldn't want to be the fly trapped in the middle of that particular spiderweb.

When he was given his orders, Seb wondered if Jim had simply decided to take over the country and be done with the whole charade, because why else would he need such an outrageous amount of explosives and snipers? However, he knew not to question Jim. Not ever. Not even when the orders didn't make sense. He would have to be patient and wait until his employer decided to share his plan, if ever. It wouldn't be the first time he walked into a situation without a clue as to what was supposed to happen, Jim liked it better that way, said it kept everyone on their toes.

Seb was his sort of self-appointed chief of security by default, because let's face it, no one envied him that position. The only reason he was not happy about being kept in the dark was because it made protecting his employer a near impossible mission, but he secretly loved the thrill of danger and near misses it got them into.

Living on the edge... that might as well be their motto.

Seb was not disappointed: kidnappings, bombs, puzzles within puzzles, deceptions… it was a fucking masterpiece and he thought Sherlock Holmes had been getting off easy so far, until the final showdown at the swimming pool. Seb should have brought popcorn to enjoy the show.

He was never bored working for Jim, the setting was so theatrical and dramatic. It was hard not to cackle as the arrogant consulting detective's face crumpled upon seeing John walk out into the light to greet him as if he was the real mastermind behind it all. Sherlock looked so betrayed, so destroyed. It only lasted a few seconds, of course. He was good at pretending not to have emotions, he'd give him that, but Jim had rattled his nemesis to his very core.

Then Jim walked in, as casual as you please and the last pieces of the puzzle fell into place as both men recognized him, albeit from different settings.

"Jim from IT."

"The coffee guy."

The two friends frowned at each other uncomprehendingly. Jim had had to navigate very carefully without crossing paths with John again. It would have been a shame to waste the surprise before now.

"Miss me?" Jim said coyly, batting his eyelashes.

"It's you, the guy on the phone!" John accused and Sherlock nodded.

"Jim Moriarty. Hi."

They are not amused, but Jim bantered and teased and threatened while Seb was camped above them, following Jim's lead and taking careful aim at John, then Sherlock, the other snipers following his own lead. One of them was a bit shaky, he would have to cut him off from the team after this operation. No one needed a shoddy sniper.

Their dots disappear with Jim, then reappear unexpectedly with his return, and Seb is quite impressed they don't have a nervous breakdown right there and then. Seb is ready to take out Sherlock Holmes at Jim's signal, because he's grown a bit attached to the bumbling John Watson himself over time. He left that target to Blondie. She'd shoot a newborn babe if you asked her too.

But Jim received a phone call, one he wasn't expecting by the looks of it, because it kind of ruined the built up tension they had going on. Seb's own finger was twitching in anticipation.

But Jim left, for good this time. A text from him confirmed as much and Seb motioned orders to his troop: time to pack and get a move on!

All the little red dots winked out of existence.

The game was over.

For now.

MYCROFT

Mycroft made a disgusted sound at the sight of his brother's domestic bliss with John Watson. It put him right of his cup of tea and he vowed to take down the camera from his brother's bedroom as soon as possible. Whatever had really happened at the swimming pool, because Sherlock's "We had a chat with Moriarty" was just plain ridiculous, it had finally broken down whatever reservations John had concerning his brother.

Mycroft had been pleased they'd become roommates, and then friends. He had an insurance someone would always look out and care for his baby brother when he couldn't but now, with… romantic entanglements, John would make sure Sherlock never touched drugs, ever again. He was, after all, a doctor and wouldn't tolerate such nonsense. Maybe he could relax security measures around Sherlock, now that someone had finally stepped in to replace him.

Mycroft was almost jealous. Almost. He himself did not have time for such frivolities.

He looked at the two ridiculous phones now in his possession, lying on his desk and looking quite out of place: one a bright pink, the other gold plated. Ridiculous, yet they brought so much trouble to both Sherlock and John. Moriarty, that scoundrel, had made a swift escape once more after the episode at the pool, vanishing into thin air like a mischievous ghost, but he would be back again someday. Mycroft hoped that by keeping the two phones with him, he would have a head start to take the troublemaker out of the picture for good should he try using them again.

Now, if only he could deal with all heads of states in such a swift manner, he might just be able to relax and enjoy a nice glass of scotch at the Dyogenes Club once in awhile.


End file.
